


Big Ace Directedverse Fic

by Skull4601 (shiplizard)



Series: Big Queer Directedverse [3]
Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: AU, BDSM, Directedverse, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/Skull4601
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Helenish's Take Clothes Off As Directed, a story about Mac MacAnally, the toppiest top to ever top, who doesn't really like sex. At all. He'd like a relationship with the right sub, someone special, someone who'll wear his collar and lay their head on his knee. It never works out; they want something from him he can't give. But Donald Morgan, surly and butch and wonderful, makes him want to try again.  (A sappy romance fic between a hetero-romantic asexual <strike>dude</strike> top and a butch, hetero <strike>gal</strike> sub. More fluffy than political.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Ace Directedverse Fic

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Take Clothes Off As Directed](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/4481) by Helenish. 



> Helenish's Take Clothes Off as Directed is a well written AU that explores gender presentation and gender roles in a universe where the divide between genders is re-imagined. It's become a genre of its own.
> 
> Big!Gay!Directedverse is a not-very-well written AU that hamfistedly stumbles around GLBTQ issues in the same universe, with all apologies to Helenish. It contains hypothetical Directed!verse analogs to sexism and homophobia, as well as violence against women.

Mac was at the grill when it happened; he missed most of the conversation under the hiss of the steak, but he'd been tending bar a long time: he knew what a fight about to happen sounded like. He slung the curls of meat into the toasted roll and set the plate on the bar with a clatter-- worked better than a cleared throat to remind the room that he was paying attention.

Neither of the participants had noticed, he saw immediately. A man with a belt-- not a regular-- was harassing a man without. The man with the belt was tall, muscular-- younger, with short curly hair. Mac had seen him once or twice before; liked his steak well done and his beer cold, which hadn't made him an instant favorite, but hadn't earned more than an eyeroll and a sigh.

One way to become unwelcome real fast, though, was to harass a sub in here. The uncollared sub was a regular, and a friend-- Mac's, if not many other people's. Older man, square shoulders, even more muscular than the top, long carefully braided hair in the key of gunmetal gray.

Donald Morgan wore a belt on the job; it gave him situational authority and a place to hang his sword, and as far as Mac knew, he didn’t mind the necessity. There were a few places, though, where he felt safe to go bare, to wear his sword on an across-the-shoulder strap. This place was one of them, for the damn good reason that Mac said it was.

The young top slammed a fist on the table. "Listen, you gaping cumhole--" and it was the last straw.

Morgan snarled and threw his glass of ale in the man's face. The top's fist came back immediately.

"No," Mac said, projecting it across the room, his natural authority killing the few murmurs from the crowd. The top stopped and looked at him, tracking him as he stepped out from behind the bar.

"--are you fucking serious? Did you just see what this little gagbiter did?"

Aha. As if he hadn’t already clearly painted himself as the kind of violent shithead who still saw subs as subhuman and not submissive. No, he wanted to dig himself in deeper. Just full of charming dehumanizing vocabulary for any sub who dared act like an autonomous person in front of him, dared to-- heavens!-- not want to fall right under his long, thick belt. So tiring.

Mac's eyes narrowed, and he sighed out through his nose. Kids these days. Apparently couldn't fucking read either, along with that sense of entitlement. He chucked a thumb at the wall, where the 'Accorded Neutral Territory' plaque was-- right above the 'Sub Rights Org and sSQA League certified Safe Space' plaque.

Which hopefully this factory-fresh tool recognized as the subsexual, Supersexual, Questioning and Ally organization; Mac didn't like having to explain things.

Not liking to explain things had incidentally dictated his choice of belt, too; the sturdy sash was the best way he'd come up with to make it clear that he wasn't in the market to dominate a sexual partner, while still making it clear that he identified as a top.

It was also a fantastic litmus test for assholes, as the young top proved: "Of course this little hipster dive is a 'safe space'. Safe for a bunch of frigid old collar-chasers who don't want to get what's coming to them. And what the fuck are you supposed to be, limpdick?"

Mac was a man of few words, but he'd heard quite a few in his day. Limpdick, of course. Choke; as in 'choked in the moment'. If he were a sub he'd have been treated to 'frigid' and 'lockjaw'. Water off of his back; another face in his mental do-not-admit roster.

Morgan, though, wasn't nearly as even tempered. "Don't talk to him that way," the Warden growled dangerously, hand going to his sword hilt.

The young top hit him, close-fisted, across the face.

Mac could have stepped back and let nature take its course at that point; Morgan was a sub, not helpless, and a more competent fighter than this young erection in shoes ever would be. But it rubbed him wrong: part of being a top, maybe, at least the territorial surge of anger that flashed red behind his eyes, and part of being a decent barkeep. Morgan came here because he didn't have to prove his worth to every asshole with a grudge against subs, every top who thought that they were god's gift to anyone without a collar. He came here to be who he was; to relax in protection. Mac had promised that to everyone who walked through the doors.

So Mac crossed the floor space with dangerous speed, feet light on the familiar stonework, and had the little shithead by the throat before the top knew what was happening. He savored the fear in the younger man's eyes for a second-- maybe there was a little personal satisfaction, at that-- and then threw him one-handed into the nearest pillar.

The man bounced off it and rolled into Mac's boot, a vicious kick calculated to hurt, not to injure, and Mac picked him up bodily to throw him against the pillar to his left.

As the man was panting and pleading, Mac reached down and grabbed his belt, hefting the tough like a piece of luggage and slamming his head against a table on the way to the door, where he threw him underhand out into the stairwell. Got him almost a third of the way up the outside steps; some day he had to try this on flat ground, see what kind of distance he was getting.

He dusted his hands off as the door banged shut behind him; the bar breathed out, light conversation starting up again. He wound his way back to the kitchen, stopping by Morgan's table.

"Ice?"

"No," the sub said, mouth tight, looking anywhere but at him. "I'm fine. Thank you." He sounded shaken, a little hurt.

Mac nodded, wending back to grab another bottle and bring it out to the table, beheading it and pouring it into Morgan's glass. He stopped the man before he could reach for his money-clip-- "To a good cause."

Morgan's hands were tight and white knuckled; Mac shifted to stand behind him, a looming wall of bone and ligament and musculature. Slowly, Morgan relaxed.

"Okay?" Mac murmured.

"I am. Thank you, my friend."

Mac grunted affectionately, laying his hand lightly on the back of Morgan's neck and shaking it a bit. It made the Warden smile.

"You're a loss to us all, you know."

Mac shrugged, and tugged the Warden's braid fondly before he headed back behind the bar.

He had the feeling that he was going to do something stupid, tonight. But he was tired of watching Morgan put his belt on and walk out the door, never doing anything, never saying anything. Not that he ever said much. ...But dammit. It had hit him in a pocket of rage he didn’t know he had, seeing that little waste of a belt lay a hand on the Warden.

It never worked. He knew it-- he'd tried it before, with subs he cared about, cared about strongly enough that the thought of them in his life and balancing his aggression with their rationality, the need to see his collar on them, was so strong that he was willing, gladly, to give them what they needed. But it never worked. Some of them blamed him for being broken-- a sub in disguise, or a closeted supersexual. Some of them blamed themselves.

It definitely wasn't that he was a sub in heavy denial. When he got off, he got off with the thrill of adrenaline of mastery, conflict. He couldn't not be a top-- he'd tried that, too, when he was young, thinking that that was what the problem was. But he moved through the world as if it was his, his bar was his castle. He was a top, through and through.

It was just when it came to topping somebody that things fell apart. He loved the impact of his knuckles against a solid surface; the feeling of flesh bruising under his hands left him cold. He loved the crack of leather, but not against skin. Power turned him on, but the exercise of power over someone else-- it was awkward. He couldn't do it. And after long enough, he'd accepted that, let it become part him, stopped holding it away as if he could get rid of it. And learned not to be ashamed.

His only regrets were times like these. He couldn't be what Morgan needed. But after all these years of the man coming in, companionable nights, friendly if one-sided conversations-- well. Mac was dangerously close to being in love with the man, his contradictions, his calloused hands and broken nose and perfectly braided hair, his willingness to bow his head and his willingness to fight to the death, and Mac wanted so badly to try one more time--

He tried to talk himself out of it all night. It would ruin their friendship. He'd hurt Morgan, a man who'd been burned before, falling for a top who couldn't be HIS top, a man who'd dealt with enough.

All his muscles would melt like butter when Mac shoved him into a chair and rubbed his back; his bulk would be so pliant when he curled against Mac in bed. He would feel so warm, so sweet, sitting at Mac's feet on a date evening, or curled in his lap at a drive in movie....

He wasn't sure which way he'd decided until Morgan came up to the bar to say goodnight. He had his belt in one hand; there was a red patch on his jawbone that would bruise soon.

Mac reached out and grabbed the belt as it rested on his bar, his knuckles brushing the other man's:

"Stay," he rasped.

Morgan sucked in a breath. His eyes went wide.

"Yes. Yes, sir."

"In the back. Chair. Kneel in front of it and wait." He opened the swinging section of the wall that separated kitchen from main room; let Morgan back inside, and set a hand on the small of his back to guide him to the back door.

Damn.

Damn.

You'd think he'd be tired of getting his heart broken by now.

It wasn't long to closing, and he tried not to anticipate, too much, to get his hopes up-- no matter how good it felt to know that Morgan was waiting obediently for him. Tried; failed; only barely managed to hurry the last-caller out and lock the door, wipe the tables and set the chairs in order. He forced most of the predatory stalk out of his stride as he made his way back behind the bar, fingers trailing the clean glasses, flipping off the grill.

Morgan was waiting, kneeling on his cloak. Mac shoved him aside and sat down on the overstuffed chair, legs spread, hands on the arms. Morgan waited until he was settled and then knelt back between his legs.

"You going to do what I say?"

"Yes, sir," Morgan said, his eagerness obvious, heart-wrenching.

"First order. We stop if it's not enough for you." He gripped Morgan's chin, pulling it up so that Morgan had to look away or risk a gaze. "Understand."

"Yes, sir." Puzzled. But trusting.

Damn!

"Naked from the waist up."

Morgan obeyed with haste; his body was worn and hard and handsome, muscles so taut that he was almost shaking.

"Give me your belt," he said, and Morgan scrambled for it, presenting it in both hands, head bowed.

It was the last thing Mac felt needed saying. He stood up and wordlessly shoved the sub onto his hands and knees.

Morgan was a contradiction here, too-- Mac had known he would be, somehow, expected that he'd be something special. Such a butch sub-- 'uppity', they were starting to reclaim. The Warden made no noise as the borrowed leather bit into his skin; bore it like a saint being tortured, something beatific and glowing in his worn face. When Mac threw him to the floor on his back he did not cringe but held resolutely still. You'd think he wasn't liking it-- but he was, the bulge in his pants growing without a touch as Mac pinned him to the floor under a boot, knelt with a knee on his broad chest and shoved three fingers into his mouth, deep enough to gag, made him choke and suck at them.

Mac guided him without words; moved him by main force, took him by that smooth braid and guided his lips to Mac's boots, held his hair tight and cruel as Morgan kissed and then asked permission to lick-- Mac answered with a stern headshake (his boots were filthy; he wasn't that kind of top) and offered his fingers to suck again.

A jerk at Morgan's waistband and the sub knew what was expected of him; he fumbled his pants off with shaking hands, exposing corded thighs, a thick erection in a thatch of gray hair.

Mac wrestled him to his feet and slammed him against the wall, fucked him roughly with two, then three spit-slick fingers, jerking him hard, stopping when he was about to come and clamping a hand around his balls, waiting, starting again, until Morgan was sweating, breath coming out in a high whine.

Mac abandoned his dick, twisting his fingers deep, and leaned in. "Come."

The sobbing noise Morgan made might have been 'yes, sir' strangling in his throat as he painted the wall with semen, lazy spurts from his twitching, dangling cock.

"Good," Mac said simply, and led him away from the wall, to wrap him in his cloak and kneel him in front of the chair, pulling off the pillow for him to rest on, guiding Morgan's head into his lap. "Good."

"Sir," Morgan rasped, voice shaking. "Sir, may I please?"

...and this was where it fell apart. Always fell apart. If not tonight, soon.

"You may."

Mac unzipped, and offered Morgan his flaccid cock. Morgan looked surprised-- worried. Hurt. Then, in his inimitable Morgonian way, resolute. It made something in Morgan's chest pang. He leaned up and pressed a kiss to it, a formality before he started to suck, tongue skillful and lips soft.

Mac let it go on for a minute, cataloging the feeling of Morgan's mouth around him.

"Stop," he said, finally.

"It's true, then?" Morgan looked up, then away, face twisted into anger. "It is. Damn me. DAMN me. Why did I think I could do better?"

"Stop," Mac ordered sharply, zipping up.

"Damn you, too! For being so good," Morgan said, the strangled tone to his voice the promise that this would end like all the others, in tears and one more ruined friendship. "Why? Was it pity?"

"No. Just selfish."

"Selfish-- what could you have gotten out of this?" Morgan looked at him as if the answer was hidden in his face somewhere, as if he could look hard enough and understand.

Nobody ever did. And Mac didn't have it in him to spill out the justification, the long pity monologue that would make sense of it, that would make Morgan understand that just because I don't orgasm doesn't mean I don't like topping you and I want you for mine, I've just never wanted that from another person and you're so sweet after you've come, I wanted to sit here forever with your head against my knee.

He said, quietly: "You."

"Me."

"Got you out of it. For a while." He stroked Mac's cheek, the bruise, fingers smoothing down his well-kempt beard. "Donald."

Morgan blinked.

"And what do you want now, sir?"

Dammit, it would end like all the others--

"You."

"I don't understand," Morgan said. He breathed in, then out. "Sir. Please, let me keep trying to understand."

And part of Mac's head was still trying to talk him out of it as he unlooped the sash from around his waist and wrapped loosely around Morgan's neck.

"My God," Morgan breathed. "I don't think I deserve this."

Mac tugged at the scarf. "Quiet, mine," he said, and stroked Morgan's hair.

Two months passed. Morgan took what he could give and accepted what he couldn't as best he could. Being with him was better than Mac had imagined, better than anything he'd had; sitting in his chair at home after a day on his feet as Morgan sat on his pillow and rubbed the pain and tension out. When Morgan had a night free, he would sleep at Mac's house, snuggling with his back to Mac's protective bulk and relaxing more deeply than Mac thought the man could.

It wasn't always easy, it couldn't be; there were times when the frustration was palpable, when no number of orgasms could satisfy Morgan's emptiness, and things felt frayed at the seams.

But Morgan kept coming back. And the ravelled edge of them knit back up, as smoothly as Morgan’s hair when Mac braided it for him in the morning.

 

\----

Six months; six months of soothing Morgan, of loving and topping him, of trying to keep him from taking out too much of his professional ire on Dresden, of infrequent but much appreciated nights together, and he had one of those nights where the arousal started and wouldn't go away. One night in two weeks he'd been able to see his sub and this goddamn nuisance....

He'd get it over with fast, come back to bed, spoon back around Morgan, and sleep. He had a familiar routine, a few tried-and-true steps that would get him off and on with life. No fantasies; none ever struck him right. Just his dick in his hand and the punching bag in the spare room, doing its double-duty as workout equipment and a yielding surface to pound when he needed that jolt of adrenaline to get him over the top.

He stripped naked, except for Morgan’s belt; it felt right around his waist, a little leather in the right place. And he took the punching bag to pieces like he wanted it to beg for mercy.

Orgasm came easy when his blood was rushing in his ears; he ripped a tissue out of the box he’d brought in, pumped himself a few times, and let the tension rush out of him.

Rolling his shoulders, he turned to the door.

Morgan was wrapped in a sheet, watching him.

“...I don’t understand.”

“Can’t do it with someone else,” Mac shrugged, trying not to let himself tense up again. “Anyone.”

“Not even me.”

Mac nodded. “Sorry.”

“You’re so beautiful like that. Sir. If that’s not out of place.” Morgan’s voice was incongruously wistful, soft; he got like this sometimes, only for Mac.

Mac shook his head. “Speak freely.”

“I wish it was me. But it can’t be.” Morgan’s eyes closed. He leaned against the door. “It will never be me.”

It always ended.

“May I watch, next time, sir?” Morgan said, opening his eyes, smiling. Gravity lessened-- not magically, only in Mac’s head, as he felt a sense of power and peace flooding through him; he could have tossed a damn car across the room.

“Every time, mine.”

 

\--

One year. A Warden framed; a traitor revealed; Mac heard about it at the edges, the buzz in the supernatural community, but no Warden or trainee had walked through his doors in a month as Edinburgh pulled its people in tight.

Mac had been working on a tooled leather project; he finished the collar, carved with the pattern of the bar’s central pillar. He tended bar numbly. No news came, day after day.

Harry Dresden came staggering in finally, a bloom of summer heat and whining cicadas with him, haggard and jetlagged. Nevernever-lagged?

“Well?”

“...oh man, Mac. Let me tell you what a crappy month it’s been.”

The door swung open again.

“I mean, for one thing, I had to let that guy sleep on my couch.”

Donald Morgan had a new scar across his neck, more gray hairs; more lines around his eyes. Beautiful as he’d ever been.

“Bar’s closed,” Mac announced, eyes glued to the Warden. “Everyone out.”

“Whu-” Dresden said, and Mac shoved two bottles into his hands.

“Out. Go. Get. MOVE,” he barked, putting the full weight of his authority into his voice.

Dresden yipped in exaggerated fright and gave a kicky little highstep, flashing a puzzled grin over his shoulder on the way out. He looked okay, Dresden, had obviously found something that worked for him and that was wonderful, fantastic, Mac didn’t have a single damn to give tonight.

“Sir,” Morgan breathed, when the door slammed shut after the last patron, and came to Mac’s open arms.

“Mine.” Mac wrapped him tight, lifted him up until Morgan was looking down at him, feet off the ground. “Oh God, Mine.”

Morgan huffed into his shoulder, buried his face in the crook of Mac’s neck when his feet touched the floor again. Mac pressed his closed mouth against the lined brow, tugging the tie off of his braid with one hand, spreading the long hair across his shoulders like he liked him best--oh, who was he kidding. Breathing, safe, in his arms was how he liked him best. He could go as bald as Mac for all Mac cared.

“Something for you.”

“Sir?” Morgan said, and gasped as Mac shoved him towards the back, trotting obediently in front of him. He saw the collar, lying on the arm of the big chair. “--Macintosh McAnally,” he breathed. “Yes. Of course,” answering the question in Mac’s eyes without a moment’s confusion.

Who else could Mac ever have offered it to, when only one man knew what he meant without a lot of wasted words?

They’d sort out later if Morgan was going to wear it in public, or to work, but it was for his, as long as he’d wear it, as long as he’d be Mac’s. Because he understood, Morgan did. Because he needed exactly what Mac could give. Because he loved the stubborn, dangerous bastard so much. Because he was his best friend as much as he was his sub.

Morgan lifted the collar to his neck and Mac fastened it, admiring it on his neck and then pulling him into his arms, fingers curling in the long gunmetal hair. Because everything ended; loneliness, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to go back to this and revisit it from Morgan's POV some day-- how he feels as a sub-rights activist, engaging in such a normative relationship, how he comes to accept it from himself and from Mac. But for right now, all we've got is the cute stuff.


End file.
